


The Dadiani Affair

by rainbowjaeger



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6010633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, Illya has to completely rely on his teammates to rescue him when he gets kidnapped by Georgian royalists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Adapted Mission

**Author's Note:**

> WOAH a multi-chapter fic with plot? Yeah man I haven't done those ever and well this tag needs more imo :\
> 
> I did some research on this stuff, but it's not like I'm looking up 20 sources for every piece of info so don't bash me for historical inaccuracy, please. The house of Dadiani actually exists to this day, and I used the name of the head of the house in the '60s. I also used some events like the Georgian protests in 1956, but that's about it. So uh yeah, I'm sorry if you happen to know a lot about Georgian history and I fucked shit up.
> 
> But yes this was loosely based off a prompt I got from redbrunja like a million years ago where Gaby got hurt/kidnapped and Illya raised hell. I decided to flip the roles ; ) This is gonna be angsty as fuck believe me

They all spoke in Russian, too fast for Gaby to follow. She could make out some of the words, but she didn’t need to understand the language to understand the situation. She was looking down the barrel of a loaded pistol, which was a good indicator as to how the mission was looking for her.

She dared looking away from the gun to take a peek at Napoleon, who was currently sprawled out on the floor after receiving a not-so-gentle hit to the back of the head. She would’ve been concerned, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was in an arguably worse position than he was at the moment.

Illya stood on the opposite side of the room, unmoving save for his hands, which were slightly twitching. Three men approached him after the man with the gun told him in heavily accented English he’d better comply if he didn’t want Gaby to take a bullet to the head.

Illya threw his hands up and the men cuffed them together and escorted him out of the room, to the running car outside their safehouse. The man with the gun flashed a smile, his collection of golden teeth showing, and lowered the gun after getting confirmation Illya was in the car. He said his goodbyes in Georgian and Gaby caught only a glimpse of his arm swinging her way before she was out cold.

* * *

 

She got woken up by beeping machines and murmurs of familiar voices around her. She had trouble enough keeping her eyes open, so didn’t even try to speak. The voices noticed her, though.

“Glad to have you back, Gabs.” Napoleon. Her eyes flickered towards him. To her surprise, he wasn’t wearing a suit for once, but a simple – wrinkled, even! – button-up shirt and slacks. He looked worse for wear, with bags under his eyes and a disheveled hairdo. He held an icepack against his head.

Gaby suddenly remembered he was knocked out, too. Though she was relieved to find him in decent health now, she was still worried. They had been friends long enough for her to know his behavior. He’d hide his pain, just like Illya. Just like herself too, actually. Apparently, it was a spy thing.

She raised her eyebrows and he shook his head slowly. “I’m fine. Nurse told me I could get dressed and go see you.”

She took his word for it because, really, she couldn’t really do much else until the anesthetics wore off.

“Illya?” she asked. Memories of everything that had happened came flooding back and she started mentally fighting the drugs in her system because she couldn’t sit still anymore.

Waverly came into view now, his expression not showing anything, as usual. His tone of voice was even less indicative of his mood. “It’s better if you rest up, Gaby.”

All the energy still left in her she used to be angry with Waverly. He knew he was treating her like a child, keeping her in the dark like that, and it made her furious. Even after a year she still felt like she was behind on, well, everything compared to her companions. They’d assured her time after time it wasn’t the case and she picked up everything they had taught her unbelievably fast. Which was actually true, but it still didn’t help her feel better.

Solo picked up on Gaby’s change of mood and chimed in. “Gaby, please. If you don’t rest your injury will only get worse.”

She sat up slightly, as if she were challenging the two. They wouldn’t be able to stop her if she were to leave – she was a grown woman, not a child that needed to be babysat.

“Agent Teller,”  Waverly raised his voice slightly, a true authority figure, “you are to be briefed on your next mission as soon as you are out of the hospital. With a bit of luck and some compliance that will be in two days at 7AM sharp.”

Gaby knew this tone and this way of speaking. It usually meant his decision was final and nothing was up for discussion anymore. She reasoned that this time, it was fair. At least she knew when she’d be briefed, hopefully with Illya somewhere in the mission.

Solo stayed with her the rest of the day and evening, which, admittedly, wasn’t very long, since Gaby awoke at four in the afternoon, but it didn’t matter. They talked the entire time, though Gaby listened more than she talked. Solo’s voice was soothing, in a way – it at least gave her something to hold onto. If it weren’t for him, she wasn’t sure what she’d be doing right now. Maybe crying in her hospital bed, maybe seething with rage, stomping around the room, furious she wasn’t yet able to leave. Maybe she would’ve even escaped. She was on the ground floor, after all.

He’d told her the details about his life he was reluctant to tell all those months ago in Vienna. He’d told her about his friends in Normandy. Apparently he’d made a friend from France who was still alive and well in a small village in the south. He promised to take her there next time Waverly gave them some time off.

When Gaby’s anesthetics wore off, she started to talk too. Mostly about her childhood in East-Berlin. Even a little about her mother. Lots about her time in her chop shop. She told him she still hadn’t fully forgiven Illya for ripping the trunk off their getaway car, though she said it with a smile on her face. Then she was reminded of Illya’s current situation and her smile faded quickly.

Though the nurse was charmed by Solo, she couldn’t let him stay any longer, since Gaby needed to rest up.

After he’d left the room, Gaby told the nurse that she shouldn’t buy into his cheap flirting tactics.

“Don’t worry, I’m not,” the nurse replied with a smile. “I’m not that dumb.”

Gaby decided she liked her. She also decided she wasn’t going to tell Solo about this conversation and planned to watch it play out.

The day after was mostly spent chatting with the nurse – named Medea – about their lives as much as Gaby was able to without letting anything on about her job. Napoleon was the subject of their conversation more than once.

All in all, she’d managed to keep Gaby’s mind from wandering, for which Gaby was very thankful. When the next day approached, though, she grew visibly anxious.

She knew the gist of it already. Illya was gone, she knew that much. He was taken away by the same men who knocked out both her and Napoleon.

She was surprised Illya wasn’t back at HQ already. Their offenders apparently weren’t all talk, since they’d at least succeeded in keeping the infamous Red Peril in their custody so far.

Still, Gaby was glad to be back. She’d always hated sitting still and doing nothing, and that was the case now, too. When she stayed idle, she started to think too much. She always preferred being a doer instead of a thinker.

She was greeted by some of her colleagues at HQ, who had apparently been worried about her. She had no doubt Waverly had been acting the overbearing father figure and had told everyone about her injury.

When she entered Waverly’s office, Napoleon was already there, drinking tea with their boss.

“Good morning, Gabs,” he said. “You feeling alright again?”

“Well enough.” She’d much rather skip the small talk. She would no longer be kept in the dark.

“Good, then.” Waverly put down his cup, motioned for her to take a seat, which she did, and grabbed a tan, large file folder from one of his desk drawers.

“Seems like the goal of our mission has changed. We’ll leave the Nazi’s be for now and prioritize on saving our favorite Russian, shall we?” Even with one of his main spies MIA, he didn’t look fazed at all.

Solo grabbed the folder from the table and flipped it open. Pictures fell into his lap and he put them on the table.

“The man in charge of the kidnapping,” Waverly explained. “Archil Dadiani, current head of the Dadiani House, one of Georgia’s bigger royal families.”

Gaby studied the picture. The man looked royal in every way, unlike either of the men that broke into their safe house just days ago. His head raised high, with a thick beard and greying locks. Though he’d seen better days, the file told Gaby he was just in his late thirties.

The longer she looked at his picture and his file, the more her stomach started to twist. This was the man that had knocked out Napoleon and held her at gunpoint. He was in charge of the kidnapping. Because of him, Illya could be dead already.

“Now before we all start targeting this fellow,” Waverly looked at Gaby in particular, “don’t we all agree that sending the head of the house to get his hands dirty is a bit off?”

“Let me guess- she’s the real deal?” Solo pointed at another picture, the only one portraying a woman.

“Quite,” Waverly agreed. “Archil’s younger sister, Sali Dadiani. Though she’s not the head of the house, it looks like she’s the one in charge. We’ve had her on our radar for a while, but she didn’t strike us as anything out of the ordinary, though she did actively protest against the communist regime. She was present at the ’56 Tbilisi protests, supporting the de-Stalinization of Georgia.”

“Not hard on the eyes, either,” Solo commented, earning a deep sigh from Gaby and a small chuckle from Waverly.

He was right, still. Although she shared some of her brother’s facial features, she looked much healthier, though less royal and proud. Her long, dark hair was braided and thrown over her shoulder, and her striking light eyes stared right into Gaby’s. Even in a picture, she intimidated Gaby just a bit.

“So this is going to be Rome all over again, if we’re looking at the enemies?” Gaby asked.

“Only this time our opponents aren’t Nazis but royalists with a burning hatred for anything communism,” Napoleon added. “And there’s nothing more communist than the Red Peril.”

“Yes, well, while we’re at it, I should update you on Kuryakin.” Now, Waverly managed to pique Gaby’s interest. “I sent some agents to ask around, and he’s been spotted with Archil and his men two days ago in a city in the west, in the province of Samegrelo, where, coincidentally, the House of Dadiani used to be in charge. I suggest we start there, in the city of Zugdidi.”

“I assume we can’t just bust into some fancy palace?” Gaby grew more impatient after hearing Illya had actually been spotted.

Waverly smiled at her. “Correct. Though I think your covers won’t be lasting long since you will be doing a lot of breaking and entering, but you two will be playing an engaged couple on a trip through eastern Europe and Eurasia. Your train to Zugdidi leaves in two hours.”

Gaby and Solo were dismissed after being told some minor details of the mission and Gaby had to calm herself while leaving HQ. She’d managed to hold herself together until the both of them sat down in the train cabin. There she realized how tired she actually was, tired from worrying and tired from moving about for the first time in a few days.

Napoleon let her lean onto his shoulder and he put his arm around her in comfort.

“It’s all going to be fine, Gabs. Surely you trust my skills as a spy,” he said to her, half joking.

She nodded and drifted into a fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya awakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I whipped this up in half an evening because I've been putting off writing more and more and I really shouldn't. :T And like hell I'll leave this story unfinished.

A bout of pain going through his neck was the first thing that registered in Illya’s brain when he woke up on the cold, damp, concrete floor. He would’ve gotten up first thing if his hands weren’t in shackles, attached to the wall by a short chain.

Healthy Illya could probably have ripped the chains off the already loose bricks, but the poison still resonated through his bloodstream. He felt groggy, like he just woke up after sleeping for what seemed like months.

He was cold, too; his jacket had been taken from him and he sat there in his thin turtleneck sweater and pants without belt or anything that even remotely resembled a weapon. Even his shoes had been removed.

He tugged weakly at the chains. Nothing happened, though the rattling alerted the guards that had been standing beside his cell, just outside his view. They spoke calmly to each other in Georgian before shouting something at the other guards that were undoubtedly at the end of the hallway.

Illya ignored them and tried to remember what happened before he got poisoned somewhere along the way. He hoped the poison wasn’t lethal, but reasoned it probably wasn’t since putting him in a cell would have been useless if it were.

Bit by bit, his memory of the past day(s?) returned. He got kidnapped by a group of Georgian men whose goal was still unclear. Would they want information on U.N.C.L.E.? The KGB? Unlikely, since Georgia was part of the USSR. Still, it wasn’t out of the question.

Were his partners okay? He hoped so, not only because he now completely relied on them to rescue him, but also because he genuinely cared about them. He didn’t know exactly when this started to happen, but it had. The anxiety growing in his stomach was a telling sign.

Suddenly, he remembered going with the Georgian men without much of a struggle. That wasn’t like him. It didn’t feel right, so there had to be a reason for his lack of violence.

He tried his best to pan out the scene in his mind until he reached the doorway, where Gaby was being held at gunpoint, and his vision immediately clouded. He yanked at the chains again and they started to give a little. He remembered Solo receiving a blow to the head and falling to the floor, laying deadly still, and he yanked harder.

They were in trouble. Had to be. The Georgians said they’d leave his partners alone if he came with them, but since when did people ever keep their promises in his life?

Before his rage could get the better of him, a figure on the other side of the bars entered his view. Illya looked up and his eyes met a pair of light blue ones to rival his. They belonged to a face meant to intimidate, but Illya had been taught long ago not to be intimidated. Still, when she entered the room, the tension in the air grew, becoming near palpable.

He could’ve sworn he saw her reveling in her small advantage of being taller than his form, which was currently forced to the ground thanks to the shackles on his wrists.

Her stature was small, she was almost a head shorter than most of the guards. Illya recognized the expression on her face, even though it was subtle – Gaby wore it whenever she stood on an elevated surface, making her taller than both Illya and Napoleon. Illya wasn’t sure what to think of the comparison he just made in his head between Gaby and this woman who obviously wasn’t on his side.

She stood there in silence for minutes that could just as well have been hours in Illya’s mind. The guards got uneasy and so did he, though he didn’t let it show.

As if he were challenging her, he pulled on the chains again, and the bricks they were attached to moved slightly. This seemed to finally get her attention enough to speak.

“Illya Kuryakin. KGB’s best, is it not?” She asked him, speaking in his native tongue. Her voice sounded both demanding of an answer and mocking, as if she and all of the guards could burst out in laughter as soon as he answered the obviously rhetoric question.

When Illya didn’t answer, she continued the sarcastic attempt at small talk. “Does news travel fast to Moscow?” Another question, but in a different tone. More genuine, but still far from serious.

“Depends,” Illya answered, his voice not as casual and more hoarse than intended.

“I take it U.N.C.L.E. and the KGB aren’t the best of friends. Still, news of their agent being kidnapped by a sad bunch of Georgian royalists should have reached both agencies by now. So, I guess the waiting game begins.”

Georgian royalists? Although the woman kept the exchange very vague, Illya tried his best to fit all the pieces together. What could Georgian royalists want with a KGB agent?

He tried recalling past disputes between Georgia and Russia. The 1956 Georgian demonstrations came to mind. He hadn’t been there personally, but it had been quite the event, if he were to believe his colleagues who had been.

The demonstrations were against the de-Stalinization of their state, but royalists came in who thought otherwise. Fights soon ensued. Illya wondered if the royalists in question had anything to do with his current situation.

“What waiting game?” he asked. He didn’t expect a straight answer, but any answer was better than none at this point.

“I’m sure the KGB wouldn’t want to lose its best agent. Neither would U.N.C.L.E., but they seem a lot more… pacifistic than our Russian friends. We’ll see who comes for you first, and with a bit of luck we can negotiate when they do. If we can’t, we’ll have a nice show, if nothing else.” This seemed to be as much as she could tell, it might have even been too much, as she said something to one of the guards in Georgian and left quickly with a nod.

Again, Illya was left with his own thoughts and he started plotting his escape. There were more guards than he expected so it wouldn’t be easy. If he were a lesser man, he’d say it would be impossible to escape, but Illya Kuryakin doesn’t accept _impossible_ as an answer. Every building could be escaped from. It had been built by humans, and humans made mistakes. He had simply been trained to discover and exploit those.

He looked at the chains connected to the shackles around his wrists. The skin around the shackles was red and raw. Illya ignored the pain and yanked at the chains again.

Even if he could get himself loose from the wall, what next? The bars on his cell didn’t look as shoddy as the walls they connected to, and Illya was sure he couldn’t break them even if he hurled the brick attached to his chains and shackles at them.

He sighed. He could trust his U.N.C.L.E. partners to come for him as soon as possible, if they were still alive, that was. He trusted them a hundred times more than his KGB colleagues, which troubled him somewhat.

He’d thought about his situation with Mother Russia and U.N.C.L.E. and what exactly his relationship was with the west. He’d even thought of defecting once or twice, but he knew that that wasn’t an option for him. He felt trapped by his loyalties more than by the three walls and set of bars surrounding him at the moment.

He felt the loneliness set in and willed Gaby and Solo to come for him faster.


	3. Chapter 3: Breaking and Entering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo and Gaby try to find clues as to where Illya might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a shit week and a party on friday and work and life got in the way of writing so here is belated chapter 3!

Gaby slept the entirety of the trip to their destination, and Napoleon had to shake her gently to wake her up.

She opened her eyes, feeling even more tired than before she drifted off. She looked out the window; the weather wasn’t improving her mood either. Dark clouds had just begun to gather above the city of Zugdidi and it looked like it wouldn’t stay dry much longer.

Sure enough, it started raining before Solo and Gaby got to their taxi. They got in with wet clothing and Gaby’s day couldn’t get any worse. She sat pouting in the backseat next to Napoleon, who was fussing over his hairdo, which the rain had just ruined.

The hotel wasn’t anything like they were used to, but it was still fairly nice and luxury wasn’t a priority for them at the moment so neither complained even though they both thought the bathroom was just a little bit too small or the record player was just a tad outdated.

By the time they both showered and changed into dry clothing, it was 11PM and Gaby would’ve wanted little more than to just fall down on her bed and sleep. But she knew neither her insomnia nor the nature of the mission would allow such a thing at the moment.

Napoleon seemed to be amused at the fact that their outfits matched; they both wore a black turtleneck sweater – ode to their missing friend, they supposed, even though the pick was entirely accidental – and dark pants. The only difference was that Gaby decided to wear a beanie to their recon mission.

They’d gone over the details in a hurry after arriving at the hotel- Illya had last been sighted accompanied by four or five men just outside the city. Their best bet was to head to the Zugdidi central park, where the old Dadiani palace stood. Though this would also be the most predictable place for the Dadianis to be, so both agents didn’t have much faith in finding Illya here.

The drive there was short but Gaby didn’t enjoy it one bit. She missed the bickering of her partners over the sound of the engine. Napoleon still talked for the both of them, but even she could sense that was just to fill the space currently left empty.

Gaby tuned him out. She heard him ask something, but ignored him in favor of getting lost in her own thoughts.

Although she looked calm (maybe just a bit anxious), she was a nervous wreck on the inside. Her head had bombarded her with worst-scenario theories all day. The one most recurring was that Illya would be long dead by the time they got to him, of course.

Registering Napoleon’s question – “Are you alright?” – she answered with her current thoughts – her worries. She didn’t want Illya to die.

“I think you’re not giving our dear Russian friend enough credit, Gabs,” Solo said.

Gaby envied his calmness even though she knew it was a front. She wished she wasn’t so transparent sometimes. Any fool could see she was worried, and worrying always just got in the way of the mission. A good spy wasn’t worried. They didn’t have the time or inclination to worry, they just did what was asked of them and that was that.

Gaby wasn’t like that. She wasn’t the worst at putting up a front, she knew that, but she still viewed herself as weak when she couldn’t. She wasn’t as good an actress as Napoleon was an actor. She wasn’t as good a fighter as Illya was. She didn’t particularly excel in anything, she was just kind of _there_.

The one thing she excelled in was driving. But this didn’t put her at easy in the least; getaway drivers were only useful if a mission went south, and that wasn’t usually the goal.

She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to wallow in self-pity. She didn’t have to be a good agent for this mission – she had to be an excellent one. Not just the mission was on the line, but also the life of an agent, her partner. She had to focus.

“You missed the turn,” Solo pointed out, sensing she was off her game today. Gaby never missed a turn, always knew the perfect moment to switch gears. Tonight she’d missed that moment three times already, even though the trip was relatively short.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” she mumbled, finding the closest spot to make a U-turn.

“Gabs, you know I absolutely adore you, but let’s be real for a second here,” Solo sighed. “You need to focus. This isn’t going to go well if you don’t get your head in the game. If you don’t, I suggest you return to the hotel and I finish the mission alone.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you do that,” Gaby spat.

Solo grinned. “That’s better.”

Gaby gritted her teeth. She did exactly what he wanted her to do. He really was a master at reading people and getting them to do whatever he wants. She sometimes hated him for it, but she had to admit it was an impressive skill to have. She had yet to learn that skill.

Gaby parked the car a block away from the park. The realization that Illya might be close gave Gaby a rush of adrenaline and she started running without as much as a warning. She heard Solo curse to himself and run after her.

“Mind giving me a heads up next time?” Solo panted when he caught up with Gaby.

Gaby shrugged and they proceeded to approach the building more stealthily from now.

The gate around the palace was locked and Solo spotted three guards, none of them heavily armed.

“I could break through the fence without any problems but those guards might be an issue,” he told Gaby, who was also analyzing the current situation.

“I don’t suppose there’s  a backdoor,” she replied offhandedly.

“I don’t suppose there is. But, the fact that there are guards in the first place might suggest that they’re guarding something valuable. A Russian spy, perhaps?”

“Or a lot of expensive things usually kept inside a palace,” Gaby retorted. Still, she appreciated his effort.

Solo ignored her comment and beckoned her to come along to a place he spotted where the guards couldn’t see them. He helped Gaby over the fence with great difficulty and then hopped over himself without any issues.

“You take the two on the left, I take the two on the right,” Gaby whispered.

“I’m taking three. Unless you handle them first, that is,” he said with a grin. Gaby replied with a scoff and a nod and he assumed that she accepted his little challenge.

“Don’t haste, no sloppy takedowns,” she told him and sneaked up behind the first guard. She had the man unconscious before Solo even got to his first. Solo recognized the move, Illya had taught her that one.

In the end they both got two guards and dumped them in a corner where nobody would see them unless they were actively looking. They’d rather have dumped them somewhere more hidden, but this would have to do.

After Solo had looted them (they didn’t have anything valuable to his liking) while Gaby merely clicked her tongue at his criminal habits, they entered through one of the backdoors. Solo let Gaby pick the locks and even though he would have picked them faster, they were in within minutes.

They took down six more guards (Solo took down four, Gaby two, much to her annoyance) before splitting up to look for anything telling.

Twenty minutes later, after scanning the palace, they had found exactly nothing, save for a few expensive-looking rings Solo had found god knows where.

“This is the woman from the file,” Gaby pointed out. Solo turned to see what she was looking at and found a huge painting hanging on the wall right to the door they came from.

Napoleon stood next to her and nodded, pocketing the jewelry he just stole. “Sali Dadiani. Her brother is in there, too.”

Gaby nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see because it would’ve been pitch black in the hall if it weren’t for the flashlights they took from two of the guards.

She only saw Archil Dadiani because Solo pointed him out. The eye went straight to his sister, Sali. Her presence, even on canvas, demanded attention. Her chin was lifted up in the air and the blue paint of her eyes were just as piercing and intimidating as the real deal, Gaby was sure.

She got uneasy, looking at the woman. She looked like she owned the world, like she was unstoppable – what if she was?

Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when Solo grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her outside, into the bushes. She was just about to ask what the hell he was thinking when she heard two voices.

The both of them stayed deadly quiet, which was a rarity between them, and listened to the muffled conversation the two unidentified people were having.

“I don’t see any guards,” the one said to the other, the words barely distinguishable. For Solo, at least, because they spoke in Russian, and the voices were too unclear for Gaby to understand.

“Strange,” the other commented. Their voices sounded much the same, so Gaby had difficulty distinguishing them.

 _Why would they speak in Russian?_ Gaby used hand gestures to communicate, an effective skill she thought of a few months ago. Napoleon and Illya agreed it would be a good idea and the three of them had spent a lot of nights trying to teach themselves and each other their own version of sign language. It had been a lot of fun, Gaby recalled.

 _They sound like natives_ , Napoleon signed back. _Besides, look at them. There’s only one thing more Russian than them, and it’s the Red Peril._

Gaby smiled and they kept listening.

“Could they hold him in Tsalenjihka after all?” one asked the other. They stepped into the light and Gaby noticed they were twins. They both wore a stoic look which seemed to be a mandatory Soviet expression.

 _Where is that?_ Gaby signed.

 _No clue_ , Solo replied, still listening carefully. His gestures were hasty, he shouldn’t lose focus on the conversation going on between the Russians.

“Yasha, come take a look,” one called out. “I found guards. Unconscious.”

“Shit,” the other cursed. “Must be those U.N.C.L.E. rats.”

Gaby and Napoleon shared a look, but neither moved a muscle.

“Let’s move,” the one named Yasha said, his voice strained. The other one nodded and they went as quickly as they came.

Gaby still didn’t move. One name stayed in her head and repeated itself over and over again. She was not going to forget it. Illya was kept there.

Tsalenjihka would be their next stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote that the palace they broke into does exist. It's a museum now: http://dadiani.si.edu/dadianipalace.html
> 
> I'm only borrowing names and am NOT comparing the real people and house to the ones in my fic. I feel the need to say this because I don't want to put the Dadiani family in a bad light by making them the antagonists in my story.
> 
> Also the team teaching each other their own form of sign language just seems really cute to me. I might do a one-shot about that.


	4. Chapter 4: Orange light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya gets relocated and remembers a previous mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for there to be like two weeks between the last update and this one. BUT life got in the way so it kinda happened? I mean school, some really really bad days, and just general stuff and procrastination. Whatever, it's here now.

Three guards stood with their rifles pointed at Illya, who had managed to get his shackled arms off the wall – with the entire brick with it. The stare-off was lasting over three minutes, but nobody dared move a muscle.

Illya’s eyes darted across the cell. It was opened, now, but the moment he would charge one of them, he would surely be filled with lead.

But if he died or was seriously injured, they wouldn’t be able to keep him hostage anymore, he reasoned. He could take his chances now, however slim the may be, or wait for the guards to knock him down.

He tried to move his arms, but underestimated the weight of the brick attached to his shackles, and was tackled by two of the guards within seconds.

Before either of them could hurt him, though, the woman from earlier returned, her icy stare replaced by a slightly panicked one, though she hid it fairly well. Illya could still see through it, though.

She said something in Georgian and Illya saw the guards’ eyes widen. They released him immediately and removed the shackled before handcuffing him instead. Seemed like they were going somewhere.

“Where are we going?” Illya asked, though knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. He didn’t. He was met with silence from both the woman and the guards. He tried getting an answer out of them by trying to break loose of the guards holding his arms behind his back, but they merely held him tighter and urged him to keep walking.

The guards’ pace was fast, which Illya didn’t mind, since everyone always told him to slow down because they couldn’t keep up with his long strides.

They shoved him into a car much too luxurious for the surroundings. Illya didn’t get to see much of the surroundings, though, since one of the men blindfolded him once he was in the car.

Just before the door right of him was shut, he heard Georgian voices shouting. Illya cursed himself for not understanding Georgian and cursed the entire country for not speaking Russian – or any language he at least slightly understood, for that matter.

The drive to their new location was about half an hour, Illya guessed. The fact that he was blindfolded and that the guards casually shoved him around every now and then disorientated him, and he arrived at his new prison slightly nauseous. The entire situation he was in didn’t do wonders for his mood.

When his blindfold was removed, he was blinded by the dim light of a lantern, which was also the only light source in the damp, cold room. There were no bars to keep Illya behind this time, there was only a door made of what looked like reinforced steel.

Illya was sat down against the wall opposite to the door, his hands cuffed to the wall yet again, and the man he recognized from a few days earlier went to sit down  in front of him. He left about a meter and a half distance between himself and Illya, though, as if he expected Illya to attack him. Illya didn’t even blame him, that would be exactly what he’d do if he got any closer.

“Friend,” the man began in Russian. The word itself and the way it left the man’s mouth made Illya sick and he pulled on his chains (bigger ones than before) violently. The man chuckled, but failed to hide the nervousness in his laugh.

“I do apologize for my sister’s…. Vagueness. Don’t take it personally, she just wants revenge on the KGB and Soviet Union, is all.” He folded his legs like a child and put his hands on his knees, his fingers gripping them tightly.

“I work for U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya tried, his voice low. He technically still worked for the KGB, but maybe it would be for the best to not tell them that explicitly.

“Of course you do!” the man assured him, voice enthusiastic for no reason in particular other than to hide his restlessness. “Russia would disagree, though. You are still KGB, their best, even. They wouldn’t want to lose you. That’s why my sister – her name’s Sali, by the way – wanted _you_ specifically.”

The door behind the man opened and the woman in question stood in the doorway. Illya tried looking past her, but the space behind her was dark.

“Speak of the devil,” the man said more to himself than to Illya, and got back on his feet.

“Archil, you are needed upstairs,” she spoke in Russian. Her voice sounded mildly strained. It wasn’t as panicked as before, but it was still a far cry from her calm, reserved self not so long ago.

Archil answered in Georgian and bid Illya farewell. He went to pick up the lantern, but decided against it and set it back down again. He looked over his shoulder to raise his eyebrows and smile at Illya as if he was saying “See? I’m doing you a favor by not leaving you in complete darkness. Remember that.”

Illya wasn’t charmed.

The guards followed the odd pair and shut the door behind them.  Illya’s only source of light was now the lantern again, and though he didn’t want to admit it, he was glad he wasn’t left in darkness. It would only add to the loneliness and uncertainness of his situation.

* * *

 

The air was heavy and humid in the dark catacombs. He was with Gaby, who held onto him for dear life even though she’d stated minutes earlier she wasn’t scared.

He didn’t blame her, though; the Parisian catacombs had claimed several victims before, and neither Illya nor Gaby were at ease, afraid they would join those victims soon.

They heard a sound behind them again, and Illya turned around, shining the lantern’s warm orange light through the endless human bone-filled corridors.

“Rats. Into everything,” Illya mumbled, half to himself, half to Gaby.

Gaby hummed in agreement, though she sounded scared still. “We’re supposed to take a left here, I think,” she said, looking a little lost behind her not-so-detailed map of Paris’ underground maze.

“Think is not good enough. Are you sure?” Illya asked her, his light shining in both directions of the crossroads but not illuminating anything past a meter from them.

“Have you looked at this damn map? It’s basically from the stone age. Half the turns aren’t even on here,” Gaby spat, her raised voice echoing through the catacombs.

Illya shone the light between the two of them and put his index finger in front of his lips. “Not so loud, Chop Shop. We are still on stealth mission.”

Gaby flashed an unamused smile. “Yes, because you’re always so good at that. Besides, I’d rather someone hear me and get us out than get lost in this actual hell.”

Illya wasn’t sure whether they’d get out. The mission had been taking too long, they’d been walking around aimlessly for at least half an hour now. On top of that, the ceiling was already low for anyone of average height, so Illya had been slouched for several hours now. This mission was getting worse by the minute.

Still, as not to upset Gaby, he steadied his voice, calmed himself, and told her: “We will get out of this. I promise.”

Gaby looked at him, considering his words, and eventually nodded. “Take a left and then a right.”

They walked around for ten more minutes before hearing footsteps. Gaby’s first instinct was to grab Illya’s arm and hide behind him as much as possible, but when she realized the footsteps could belong to their mark or one of his henchmen, she let go of him and reached for her gun.

“Don’t,” Illya whispered. “We do not want caves to collapse, no?”

“Right.”

They followed the sound of the continuing footsteps, though it wasn’t an easy task. The echoing of the catacombs made it difficult to locate the sound, but they do seemed to get closer to the source. A confirmation of this was the pace of their target, which seemed to have picked up. Their mark noticed they were being followed.

Illya broke into a sprint, making sure Gaby stayed close to him, and reached the man in a matter of seconds.  With one swift blow, he knocked him unconscious and felt his pockets for the pocket watch they were looking for. Illya found it in the inside pocket of his suit. He grabbed it and started walking.

“Wait!” Gaby called out. “I know he’s a criminal and all, but…” she trailed off, looking at the man that was currently out cold on the floor.

“If you want to bring him, you may carry him,” Illya commented. All he wanted was to get out, he didn’t need one more person to drag along.

“Fine,” Gaby said, sounding offended. Illya watched her grab the man’s arms, put them around her neck, and carried him along, his feet dragging over the floor.

Illya simply shook his head, turned around and kept walking.

After another twenty minutes of walking, the static from their communication devices started breaking up, and bits and pieces of Solo’s voice came through. They looked at each other, relief spreading across their faces.

After just another two turns, they saw a dim light coming from the end of the hallway. They ran towards it and breathed in the cool, fresh air from the outside. The sounds of loud Paris, which usually irritated Illya, were music to his ears now.

“Evening, comrades,” Solo greeted them, flashing his trademark grin. Illya spotted some relief on his face as well. Relief that his partners, his _friends_ , were okay.

“Good evening, Cowboy,” Illya greeted back, putting out the lantern. The lantern that looked so much like the one in front of him now. The only difference was the feeling it radiated.

This time, the lantern in front of him only reminded him of his solitude. It didn’t shed light on Gaby’s soft features or Solo’s annoying smirk. It only shed light on his own pitiful form, captured and lonely.

Gaby and Solo had better be coming soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illya's new location is also a real place, though of course I don't know if there's a basement and all. Here's its Wiki page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsalenjikha_Cathedral
> 
> Comments are much appreciated, and you're very welcome to leave me prompts, either on AO3 or on my tmfu blog, gabytell.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5: Gribkov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby does some reading up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter is really empty plot-wise. Sorry! I'm also slow as hell but that's not new

For the fourth and last time, Solo called for Gaby to get out of bed and join him in the living room to look over the files. For the fourth and last time, he got a groan as an answer.

Sighing, he went to the bedroom with the files under his arm and fell down on the bed next to Gaby.

“I did some research on the twins from yesterday night,” he stated.

Another groan, but Gaby turned around to face him this time. He sat on the covers, dressed smartly as always, happy as can be. She still wondered just how he could look and act like this at… what time was it?

She turned to look at the clock on the wall. Eight AM. Unbelievable.

“So what’d you find, Napoleon?” she asked, utterly uninterested.

“Surprisingly, not much,” he sighed, handing Gaby one of the files. “KGB hides their agents well. Back in Berlin, I was happy enough I could find anything about Illya’s past. A rarity, it seems.”

Gaby flipped open the file. Two pictures were clipped to the paper, and she had to look twice to make sure it wasn’t the same picture taken twice.

“Sasha and Yasha Gribkov,” she read aloud. “KGB elite. Barely a rank under Illya.”

Illya had been mentioned twice in under a minute now, and Gaby was immediately wide awake, and fully aware of the current situation. Her bed had been awfully cold again last night.

“Exactly. And they’re headed for Tsalenjihka, Georgia.”

“I know that,” Gaby spat. The name hadn’t left her brain since last night. She was still anxious, though. The KGB twins could be there already, extracting him and bringing him back to Moscow. And he wouldn’t be easy to get back if that were to happen.

Solo looked at her with raised eyebrows, a look in his eyes that told her he knew precisely what she was thinking. She hated that look, it made her feel transparent, shallow, easy to read. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Solo were the same, but he was quite the opposite. Napoleon Solo was a damn enigma, always wearing a different mask, impossible to pin down. Some cracks were showing, but after he let anything personal slip - if he even let that happen, that is – those cracks were immediately glued shut. That head of his was truly an impenetrable fort.

“Well, I’ll let you look those through, we can head for Tsalenjihka in the afternoon. Waverly already booked a hotel.” He got off the bed, making the springs creak a few times (which was without doubt a familiar thing for him), and closed the door behind him, leaving Gaby with just the weak light of the early Georgian sun.

She grabbed the other files, clicked on the light on her nightstand, and delved in.

Yasha and Sasha Gribkov, thirty-four years of age, one of the younger KGB agents, along with one of the highest ranked. Born and raised in downtown Moscow in a poor family, closely associated with the Kuryakins. After the downfall of the Kuryakin family, their ties were cut quickly, and not much was heard from them. The only significant event recorded was Yasha Gribkov getting into a fight with an unknown individual and ending up in the local hospital with severe headwounds. He ended up fully recovering but still dons a scar on the right side of his temple, clearly visible thanks to his buzzcut.

After joining the KGB at age seventeen, shortly after fifteen-year-old Illya Kuryakin joined, they quickly rose in the ranks until reaching top agent rank, barely below Kuryakin.

Half an hour later, just before Gaby could read into any of their KGB carreers, Solo barged right in.

“Ride’s ready,” he grinned after seeing her buried beneath all the files and documents.

Gaby merely mumbled something about wanting to take a shower first and that he’d just have to wait for her.

* * *

 

The ride to Tsalenjihka was just under an hour, but it felt like several days. The car – a complete 180 from the one they drove around in in Zugdidi – barely reached 60 kilometers an hour and Gaby heard it rattle and creak from places it really shouldn’t. It didn’t seem to worry Solo, though, but, then again, nothing ever seemed to.

“May I ask why Waverly got us this heap of shit you may call a car?” Gaby asked, nostrils flared and in a terrible hurry despite the car’s snail-pace.

“God, Gaby, U.N.C.L.E.’s not made out of _money_ ,” he said, a bit over-dramatically. “Plus, this mission wasn’t exactly planned so we’ve got to make do with the small budget available for sudden missions.”

“I should really talk to Waverly about that.”

“Why, do we plan on getting Illya kidnapped another time?” He asked, and regretted it immediately. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Gaby shook her head and sighed. “Whatever. Anyway, I read up on those KGB guys from the other night.”

“Me too. Seems like Illya had some friends after all,” Solo commented, hoping to lighten the mood a little. Gaby had been exceedingly uneasy and fidgety the past days and Solo started to get a bit annoyed, too. He knew he couldn’t blame her, he missed their stoic, giant comrade as well. But he was also very aware of the fact that he didn’t miss him like Gaby did – he was the odd one out.

Not that he particularly minded. Watching the two run in circles trying to get the other to notice them but leave them alone at the same time was very entertaining, but it was getting a bit old too. Not to mention the fact that Gaby and Illya obviously had a better relationship than he had with either of them.

 _Pity_ , he sometimes thought. But then he saw Illya comment on something indecent and Western and forgot his worries in favor of rubbing his American indecency in his hammer-and-sickle face some more.

Gaby stayed silent for a second, and Solo could swear he saw a smile on her face in the corner of his eye. “Guess he did.”

“Don’t get jealous now.”

A scoff. Solo grinned his signature grin whenever something went his way.

The mood was set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was more OT3-ish than I intended but ehh I don't mind. Read into it as you like.
> 
> Also I'm absolutely drawing the twins. I already doodled Sali.


	6. Chapter 6: Redacted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little prologue on Sali and Archil.

It had been the third day of the heat wave in Tbilisi, but still, the little girl’s blood ran colder than the Ural mountaintops at the sight of her mother, already frail but now looking incredibly helpless, crying in the corner of their small  kitchen. The bruises on her arms looked fresh, as well as the black eye and split lip she’d rather not show her young, impressionable daughter. Her older brother wore marks much the same, but he was preoccupied trying to calm down their mother.

It had taken her days before her mother told her where her father had gone. He was gone for days on end fairly often, but her mother wouldn’t be hurt like this at those times. She’d always tell her daughter that her dad was doing important business in Moscow and that she was very proud of him and that she should  be too. She didn’t care to mention that he was locked up now, probably being interrogated or on a train to some isolated camp in Siberia.

Still, she was proud of her father. Sure, he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t home very often but when he was he would take her to the zoo or bring her new toys. She never questioned where he’d always find the money to buy her brand new toys, but then again, a small child doesn’t question much at all, even less when it’s her dad because her dad was always right and a good man.

Now, with those days of ignorance and innocence left behind her, Sali is proud of her father nonetheless. Even when he was caught embezzling, she was sure he was framed. He did have a business partner, she knew he framed, blackmailed or at the very least convinced her father to commit the crimes against the state he committed.

Archil had told her to drop it many times – their father was a criminal and he had it coming. She should accept it and move on.

Not like he was one to talk. Whenever the discussion between the communist regime and royalist reign would arise (not like it does often, they don’t want any unneeded attention from Russia), he’d snap and lose it completely. He was, years later, still hostile towards the communists, even though he was very little when they annexed Georgia and decided the royal families had to step down. Their mother, though also unhappy with the soviet turn of events, had told them that they were lucky they were still alive. Archil would have none of it, though.

So their plans started to match up. Sali wanted to avenge her father under the guise of her brothers motive – claiming back the land that was once theirs.

Even though Sali knew her brother wasn’t the brightest, he’d still gotten a fairly high position in the Georgian government and thus had several ties to Moscow. If they were reliable, he didn’t know. He hid his anti-communist ideals and simply hoped for the best.

This gave him access to some leaked files, though. It had taken him several years to gain his colleagues’s trust, but it didn’t matter to him nor Sali.

Finally they’d have access to the files and Sali would find out who was responsible for her father’s fall from grace.

Archil handed her the file.  She read the printed name on the front – Mikheil Dadiani. It almost felt ceremonial.

The map felt lighter than she imagined and for a split second, she was afraid she wouldn’t find the information she was looking for.

She started flipping through it carefully, skimming through his files until she got to the first page about his career. Her heart was in her throat.

_…was caught embezzling KGB funds with business partner Andrei Kuryakin._

“Kuryakin,” she said aloud, the Russian of the name not foreign to her but the name still sitting uncomfortable in her mouth. “Are there more files about him or his relatives?”

Archil’s eyebrows furrowed and Sali raised hers. “Well,” he hesitated. “I have the file on him, but there’s not much noteworthy in it, really.”

Sali held out her hand, rough and calloused but still graceful somehow. Her brother grabbed another, slightly thicker map out of his bag and handed it to her.

The next few minutes were spent in silence as Sali read every line of the file twice, even thrice, to find anything that may mean something. After what seemed like hours to Archil, she spoke up, reading out loud.

“ _After being sent to the correctional camp of Jakoetsk, his wife (Natalya Kuryakina, deceased) and son (Illya Kuryakin, [REDACTED]) were forced to move out of their previous house. Mrs. Kuryakina passed away less than two years after his departure due to unknown circumstances.”_ She looked at her brother with a look he couldn’t quite place. “ The part about his son is redacted.”

“So?”

“So,” she repeated with much more vigor than before, “find his file. No matter what. You have a name.”

“Sister, you do understand that I don’t have unlimited access. I can’t just-“

“No matter what.” Her eyes (always dangerous, she got those from her father) might as well have been on fire, the look she shot him so fierce.

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short, it was kinda rushed.


	7. Chapter 7: An Empty Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2k words because I decided fuck it, if I split this up the plotholes will only get larger and I had to fiddle a lot to fill them up already. I really am bad at plot.
> 
> Also I got back from a week in England with school in bumfuck nowhere with barely any wifi. My excuses for late chapters seem to be getting more elaborate as the story unfolds.
> 
> !! I edited the archive warnings with this chapter. It gets just a little gruesome.

“This isn’t adding up,” Gaby said while taking a particularly sharp turn.

The night on the Georgian highway was cold, but Gaby’s attitude could freeze over Hell. Solo tried to lighten the mood a little, but to no avail. She was either too focused on the mission or still mentally beating herself up for letting Illya get kidnapped. Possibly both, he mused.

“Do tell.”

“Why would they take him hostage in the first place? I mean, they aren’t on U.N.C.L.E.’s radar in the first place. They wouldn’t plan on threatening Moscow with just one agent, be it their best. It doesn’t make sense.” She grew more agitated with every word and Napoleon lay a cold hand on hers, which had turned white from gripping the steering wheel too tight.

“We discussed possible motives, and all seem unlikely. Right now, I think getting Illya out of this mess is a priority.” Solo rarely used Illya’s real name; he always called him Peril. He paused. “If the KGB doesn’t get to him first.”

“That doesn’t help,” Gaby said with gritted teeth, but her grip on the wheel loosened slightly. She took a deep breath. “We’ll just have to see what happens.”

* * *

 

The constant dripping of water from the ceiling was almost hypnotizing to Illya as he still sat uncomfortably on the cold stone floor, his wrists raw from the shackles and the feeling in both of his arms barely there. He breathed out and watched a small cloud come from his mouth and disappear in seconds in the dim light of the lantern. The breath seemed mocking, almost – not bound to anything, let alone chains. Fleeting, gone in a second.

The near silence was broken by a slamming door and shouting. Could Archil be back? No, the shouting was more panicked and Illya swore he heard Russian in there.

He suddenly felt hope like he hadn’t in a very long time. He was about to be freed from this humiliating situation. The KGB’s best, chained up in a basement by some petty Georgian royals. If Moscow got wind of this (which they probably had already), he would surely be in trouble.

The lantern went out but Illya didn’t care. He was entirely set on the slim chance that someone, anyone was about to come in and undo his shackles and say “It’s been a long day, time to go home.” Ignoring that Illya technically didn’t have a home, it would be a touching scene. Preferably, he’d hear those words come from the Cowboy himself.

Footsteps came down the staircase (multiple pairs, Illya noticed) and, through the darkness, he heard rattling at the door and faint Russian swears.  The voice was familiar, in a bittersweet way that sparked something of both melancholy and guilt in his heart. There might’ve been some fear in there too, but he wouldn’t ever admit that, not even with a knife to his throat.

After a minute or so of rattling, it got quiet again and a sinking feeling hit Illya. Had they given up? Were they captured as well?

A loud _thump_ halted those thoughts, and the whole basement rattled. Two more _thumps_ and the door was kicked entirely off its hinges by a familiar buzz cut-duo he hadn’t seen in a long time. He wouldn’t have recognized them at all if it weren’t for their trademark banter that rivaled his and Solo’s.

“Next time, just wait until I pick the lock before you decide to kick in the door, alright?” a voice spat in Russian. It tried to speak in a hushed tone, but obviously failed as Illya could easily understand him from several meters away.

“We got in, didn’t we?” another, ever so slightly higher pitched voice answered. The fluctuation of it was so small, Illya was sure he was one of the only people to distinguish it from his brother’s.

He didn’t get an answer, though, as the first twin (Illya recognized him as Sasha) merely gave him a _tsk_ and stormed towards Illya, undoing his shackles first thing. The ease with which he removed them even further humiliated Illya.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble, Kuryakin, I’m sure you’re aware of that,” Sasha informed him, though his voice was not at all stern. In fact, Illya wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it this relieved.

Illya merely nodded, still stunned at the sight of them.

“How’d they capture you, KGB’s best, anyway?” the other, Yasha, questioned him.

“Not important,” Illya grumbled. He thought of Gaby. If he ever openly admitted his weakness to the tiny German mechanic to the KGB, they’d immediately fly him back to Moscow. He’d be interrogated, possibly fired, most likely worse. Those thoughts made him shiver, also because he noticed himself growing more frightened of going back to his homeland. The country he’d always loved with all his heart was slipping away from him, and he didn’t even mind. What a shameful Soviet citizen he was, and he called himself KGB’s best, no less.

The twins, KGB’s second best, didn’t treat him as an agent at the moment, though. He felt more like a brother to them as they seemed genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. The cold, lack of sleep and hunger were getting to him (even though he’d experienced much worse, but that’s beside the point) and he was fighting against the tears burning in his eyes.

Yasha laughed out loud at the sight of Illya swallowing his tears and failing. Sasha shushed him but he ignored him. It felt just like when they were just rookies in the army and didn’t know what the world had in store for them. Of course, they knew exactly what the world had in store for them; Illya had just lost both his parents in a way and he was sure the Gribkov twins weren’t off much better. But they’d put that behind them and started a new life, serving as Soviet soldiers and, later, spies. They were the gatekeepers of the vault that contained an uncountable amount of USSR secrets, and they were – had to be – proud of that.

“Can you walk?” Sasha asked and supported him as he stood up and let the blood flow back into his limbs.

“I’ll have to,” Illya managed. Really, he’d experienced much worse circumstances. Has his time in U.N.C.L.E. weakened him this much?

“Let’s get out of here before they call in reinforcements,” Yasha decided and got a head start up the stairs, gun cocked and his steps barely audible. Illya and Sasha followed, though Illya’s steps were much too heavy to be anywhere close to silent.

Illya felt himself slip from both consciousness and Sasha’s grip soon, though, and heard himself hit the ground before everything went black.

When he woke up, most likely just seconds later, he was sat against a wall with Yasha partly shielding him and shooting at men Illya didn’t recognize. He realized the reinforcements had come and he cursed to himself as he intuitively grabbed for his gun, only to awkwardly pat his chest, remembering his weapons were confiscated when he got captured.

The firefight came to a halt suddenly. It was so abrupt that Illya had to check twice he hadn’t fallen unconscious again. The eerie silence apart from Yasha’s heavy breathing gave him goosebumps.

He looked around Yasha to spot Sasha dropping his gun, holding his hands up as Archil holds his pistol (engraved, the Dadiani crest on the side) to the Russian’s head.

“How about we all calm down for a second?” Archil laughed in heavy-accented but fluent Russian. “Get back, son.” With a tilt of his head, he motioned for Sasha to join his colleagues against the wall. “You, too,” he barked at Yasha, who, in turn, spat at him before pulling the trigger on his gun, only to discover it was out of ammo. The faint _click_ it gave made Illya’s heart sink for the third time in only minutes and only accented the agent’s defeat.

“Luck isn’t on your side today, it seems,” Archil grinned, his several golden teeth showing. In only seconds he was joined by four more armed men, their guns all pointed at the three unlucky men with their backs against the wall.

“I have never experienced _luck_ ,” Yasha said, his voice the most venomous both Illya and Sasha had ever heard it, before giving his brother a quick, knowing look. Sasha returned the look, their faces going completely blank. Illya felt the calm before the storm.

Everything went down in just seconds. Illya wanted to assist them badly, but he barely managed to stand up straight after sitting chained up for what had seemed like days.

Yasha took care of the two guards on the left, dropping his empty gun and going for his trusty dagger, stabbing one guard in the throat before any of the other guards could even react. The blood that gushed out reached Illya, coloring part of his arm and leg red before he stepped out of the way.

Sasha, while Yasha was having a bit of a struggle with the second guard, had gone for the same technique as his brother, stabbing one guard on the right in his arm before stabbing him again in the neck. The second guard, which he’d gotten a punch in before even killing the first, had his gun thrown out of his hands by a jab to the arm. Sasha grabbed it and shot him between the eyes before assisting his brother.

In the second of spare time that Yasha had managed to find in the brawl, he’d thrown Illya some ammo. He caught it and reached for the empty gun that had just been dropped on the floor. Before he could put it in the gun, however, Archil had gotten up to him and kicked him across the face, making Illya release the gun and spit out a few bloody teeth at the same time.

Illya looked at him, a bit frazzled – the royalist was seething, his eyes wide open and his stance aggressive. Illya thought to take advantage of this; angry people were more predictable in their movements, after all.

He was surprised by his quick movement, though. In one swipe, he held Illya’s arm bent behind his back with surprising strength, holding a loaded gun against his head with a shaking hand.

“Sali wants him dead anyway,” he muttered, more to himself than to any of the agents. “She’s probably off having a beauty sleep while I’m off doing all the dirty work again.” His voice raised and he spat out his words quite literally – Illya was disgusted at the amount of saliva on the side of his face.

Archil took a deep breath and his hand steadied. With the breath, Illya could feel the arm holding his loosen his grip unconsciously though.

“She can have him dead!” Archil yelled and Illya released his arm before barely dodging a bullet through the head. Instead, he received it in the back of the shoulder. The adrenaline coursing through his weary body made sure he didn’t feel the pain for a few moments as he jabbed Archil in the stomach, making him drop his gun at once. Illya picked it up and shot him through the head before deciding otherwise.

The shot was sloppy, blowing off half his head and leaving the other half fairly intact. There was blood everywhere, along with several pieces of head and brain the three agents effortlessly ignored. The work had desensitized them by now, they were used to dead bodies and stray limbs or bits of organs.

“We really have to leave, now,” Sasha said, putting a hand on Illya’s shoulder and getting him out of his stupor.

Without a word, Illya followed them. They were well on their way to the getaway vehicle until he realized the consequences of going with the twins. A one-way flight to Russia and possibly a one-way trip to Siberia as well.

He stopped dead in his tracks, but the thoughts of following his father’s footsteps were only partly the reason for him to interrupt his sprint.

“Illya!” a shrill voice called out. As if on instinct, he turned to the voice with more hope than he’d ever experienced and saw Gaby running from the car to him, Solo staying close by.

Illya opened his mouth to say something, well aware of the twins also having stopped and staring at the strange scene unfolding in front of them, but was interrupted by a sound of a gunshot and the sight of Gaby falling to the ground.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also writing a one-shot at the moment, so that'll be up soon too. The TMFU tag has been a little dead and my ace ass barely reads any mature fics so I'm over here crying. Don't get me wrong though, I love this fandom and everyone who writes fics, leaves comments and kudos to death.


	8. Chapter 8: The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sali gets captured but the team isn't entirely safe yet.

It was unsure if anyone present could really keep track of what was happening, it simply went too fast.

The first shot that was released still rung in Illya’s ears when he ran to her and Napoleon had ran to take care of Sali. Sasha and Yasha assisted him, they had no qualms working together, though it was probably because of a mutual enemy and less due to the fact that they were anywhere near friends.

The next four shots fired missed, Sali’s mind in panic and her aim unsteady. The three top agents moved quickly, bending her arms behind her back after quickly hitting the gun out of her hands. She raged and thrashed but Solo’s grip on her was too strong. She did manage to spit Sasha in the face and he swore in Russian. His fists balled and swung back his arm to hit her, but Solo shouted at him to stop, and his arm froze mid-swing.

Now, he focused his rage on Napoleon. “Why should I, American? Tell me!” The woman’s saliva still dripped from his cheek and that act of disrespect seemed to be the last drop. He was absolutely furious and Yasha didn’t do anything about it. He even seemed amused; apparently his brother didn’t lose his cool that often.

“Plenty of time to do that during interrogation, no, comrade?” The sentence was supposed to sound lighthearted, but Solo’s voice wavered and the words came out too serious to even be considered a joke.

Sasha opened his mouth to undoubtedly shout something at him, but Yasha stopped him, laying a hand on his shoulder and pointing towards their left, where Illya on his knees in the grass with severely wounded Gaby pulled in his lap. Sasha seemed to swallow his anger for now and move towards them.

“Truly a shame you turned out to be no good, miss Dadiani,” Solo sighed, his usual slick self more or less back. Sali only tsk’ed at him, still trying to break loose. Solo’s grip didn’t weaken in the slightest even though she was strong.

The Russian twins helped Illya up, who was covered in even more blood now. His tattered shirt was stained a deep red, the original grey color barely visible still. His hands were sticky with blood as well as he handed Gaby’s barely conscious frame over to Yasha. He stormed off towards the car she’d arrived in minutes earlier, while Sasha and Illya stayed close behind them.

Once Gaby was in the car with Illya next to her, still whispering it was going to be okay in a mixture of Russian, English and German, the twins went to their own car. Solo had made sure Sali was in their backseat already, handcuffed and somehow unconscious (they had to ask him about that later) and they followed the U.N.C.L.E. agents to their safe house, Illya and mainly Gaby’s health more of a concern than the fact that two KGB agents would know the location of their safe house.

The car ride was relatively short, made even shorter by their ridiculous speed, but still felt like an eternity, especially to Illya and Gaby. She kept slipping in and out of consciousness and with every wave of her sleepiness Illya experienced a similar wave of panic. He kept talking to her, mostly in German, to make sure she’d stay conscious. He’d located her wound – the bullet was lodged in her stomach – and pressed the closest piece of cloth he could find on it. It happened to be Solo’s jacket, but he remained silent about it, though Illya was sure he’d give him hell for it later.

Gaby barely spoke, but nodded occasionally when Illya asked her if she was still awake.  The only thing slipping from her lips was Illya’s name, but her tone was so scared and pleading that it only caused him more dread.

A medic was already present when they got to the safe house. The doctor immediately made Illya carry Gaby to the bathroom, where a makeshift hospital room was already set up. After he carefully put her down on the stretcher, he was kindly but sternly asked to leave. The door was locked behind him.

The waiting game began.

A second medic came over, this one less hasty, to check up on Illya. The bullet lodged in his shoulder was out quickly and, being the hardened agent that he was, Illya barely even winced. The fairly shallow wound was disinfected and stitched up and afterwards he was checked for hypothermia. All was fine.

Napoleon had stricken up a conversation with Sasha, who seemed to be entirely uninterested. Yasha was asleep on the couch, his tall frame huddled up into fetal position. Even asleep, his stern look stayed on his face.

Having gotten rid of Solo, Sasha went to sit next to Illya, whose blood pressure was being checked.

“So that’s the infamous Teller girl?” he asked in his native tongue, raising his eyebrows in genuine curiosity.

Illya nodded solemnly at the word “infamous”. Of course he knew the KGB knew of her existence (it would honestly surprise him if there was someone they didn’t have a file of) but it still reminded him of their frail situation. Their team had survived for longer than all three of them had expected so far, but nonetheless, it was temporary.

“Oleg isn’t happy with you, you know that?” Sasha continued. Of course he knew. He’d told him personally several times. Told him he shouldn’t lose focus, remember his training. Desensitize, disconnect, do not form any connections under any circumstances. Since U.N.C.L.E. he seemed to have thrown nearly every single KGB rule out of the window. The worst part was, he didn’t really seem to mind. He barely thought of the fact that he was turning his back to his country, his superiors, the shame connected to his name and bound to his entire existence.

“I know,” Illya replied. He looked up; Solo was gone. Change of clothes, probably.  “Will you report me?”

The question was unexpected, Sasha was visibly surprised. Not so much the question, but the indifference of Illya’s voice was what struck him as unusual. His loyalty lay somewhere else, that was clear, even to Sasha. The KGB had lost its best to a tiny German spitfire.

“No. But we can’t protect you forever. You have to make a decision, Kuryakin. Stay KGB or leave entirely. This- this little international alliance is dangerous, even more so than staying with one agency. Your leash is close to snapping, with this tension being put on it from both sides.”

“You’re asking a lot of me, Sasha.”

“Fuck off. You’re no actor. You’re an open book, any idiot could see you’d rather be with U.N.C.L.E. than the KGB. Hell, I don’t blame you. I haven’t seen you like this since before your father got taken.”

The mention of Illya’s father didn’t make his finger tap against his arm, his patience wasn’t being tested. Sasha was being serious, wasn’t trying to blackmail him with his father’s shameful actions like everyone in his life had been.

“But if I defect, you will surely get killed.” The medic was done with Illya, told him some routine things, and left. They were alone in the room now, apart from Yasha still sleeping on the couch.

“Don’t count me out just yet. I’m sure the KGB can’t afford to lose three of its best agents in a row.”

“Then apparently you haven’t learned a thing in all your years.”

The silence that followed told Illya enough. The Gribkov twins knew what they were getting themselves into if they returned to Moscow without Illya in tow.

“By the way,” Sasha spoke up, “that Solo guy, I’m pretty sure he was trying to hit on me just now.” His upper lip was raised in disgust.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just… Napoleon. He’ll move on soon enough. Who knows, maybe he’s found a new maid to share his bed with already.” Though he didn’t speak positively of Solo, his tone was not one of disgust. He spoke of Napoleon like a friend – which he technically was.

“He better if he doesn’t like having his nose broken.”

Sasha hadn’t finished his sentence yet but Illya stood up to pick up the phone that had started ringing in the middle of their conversation. It was Waverly. The horribly posh British accent was a breath of fresh air for Illya after days of harsh Georgian and occasional Russian.

“Ah, Kuryakin. Glad to hear you’re in good health. I called to report that Sali Dadiani is officially in custody of U.N.C.L.E.”

“Gaby has been shot,” Illya stated. Even talking about it still made his blood run cold.

“I heard,” Waverly replied. “I sent the best medic available. She is on the operation table now, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then. Try to rest up a bit. I’ll inform you and Solo if anything happens with miss Dadiani.” He hung up before Illya could respond.

“I think I’m going to try and sleep too,” Sasha told Illya and lay down on the couch opposite to Yasha.

Illya wished he could sleep, but Gaby wasn’t safe and with him yet, so he was unable to. He cursed the door between them, locked by the medic.

He sat down in front of the bathroom door, eyes trained on the handle, waiting for it to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's one more chapter after this one! Maybe an epilogue after that, whatever.


	9. Chapter 9: Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter got taken down for half a day because of a comment from (guest?) user Me asking me if I had skipped the part where Illya was shot in the shoulder. Um. Fixed. That's really embarrassing. I knew I missed something, a lot possibly, but yeah that's fixed now. Oops.

When the handle of the makeshift operation room turned, Illya prayed to every god he could recall even though his upbringing didn’t teach him to practice any religion.

The doctor appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted and his pale blue clothing stained with red-brown spots that made Illya’s stomach turn. The surgeon removed his small, round glasses and gave him a relieved smile.

“Let her rest for a while. She’ll wake up when she wants to,” he told lllya. He removed his dirty gloves and added that he’d be in room 502 for as long as U.N.C.L.E. wanted him to, so Illya were to call if anything happened.

When the doctor was gone, Illya entered the room as quietly as he could, as if she would wake up at even the slightest noise. He grabbed a stool and put it next to the stretcher. He sat down on it and let his entire body slump over, exhaustion finally catching up to him. His always perfect posture was nowhere to be seen; he leaned forward and let his head rest on the side of the stretcher, his forehead and hair barely touching Gaby’s hand.

He remained like that for what could have been minutes as well as hours, until he heard the closed bathroom door open. The way it was opened and the unidentified person stepped inside, Illya immediately knew who it was. Only Napoleon Solo could announce his presence without even a word and still get his extravagant and slick self across to anyone present.

“You should get some sleep, Peril,” he almost whispered, assuming Gaby’s sleep wasn’t as deep as it actually was.

“No, it is fine,” Peril replied and straightened his back. The room around him had gotten lighter and his back ached. There was a red line across his forehead from leaning against the stretcher for too long. He rubbed on it but it didn’t go away immediately.

“If you say so,” Solo replied, deciding that a smart reply could wait until tomorrow. “Your comrades are fast asleep on the couch, haven’t even spoken about leaving since they got here. Just wanted you to know.” The door creaked as it was closed carefully and Illya thought about assuming his previous position, but settled for sitting up straight and just holding Gaby’s hand instead. It wasn’t cold like it had been in the car ride. He could’ve sworn it was even warmer than when he leaned his forehead into it. He took it as a good sign.

When the clock ticked 11:03AM, Illya found himself asleep on the stool, leaning forward with his head on the stretcher again. When did he fall asleep? He couldn’t remember.

A small hand was twirling a lock of his hair around her finger absentmindedly. A year ago, any unexpected touch would have alerted him immediately, but he had weakened and things had changed. He didn’t move until the voice belonging to the hand greeted him with a small “good morning”.

“Good morning,” he echoed and sat up straight. A red bar marked his forehead once again and he saw Gaby smile because of it when he tried to rub it away.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, her voice crisp and clear despite her situation.

“I do not know. Since doctor left.” He tried to remember the time. Really, any sense of time had slipped away from him since, well, the Dadianis captured him.

“You should go sleep,” she told him.

“So should you,” he said, knowing full well he sounded like a small child with this reply.

“You know my sleeping habits,” she smiled. “Besides, I feel like I’ve slept for weeks.” She tried sitting up, but was pushed back to her pillow gently.

“Then at least rest,” he tried, his hand staying on her shoulder for a moment.

Gaby pouted a little but then sighed and nodded. She did raise her arm to touch the scar next to Illya’s eye. “I haven’t seen you in what feels like weeks too.” She said it so softly, Illya had to strain his ears to understand her.

He nodded as if saying “it’s okay, I feel the same way”. Instead, he whispered “I am here now.”

She smiled and turned her head to face the ceiling. “Thank God you are, or I would’ve taken a bullet for nothing.”


	10. Chapter 10: Challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for the wait! One or two more after this.

On the second day out of bed, Gaby claimed one of the two couches, as well as the liquor cabinet. Illya reminded her not to drink while she was still recovering, but Solo wasn’t prepared for her very well acted show of self-pity, and slipped her a glass of scotch when Illya wasn’t looking.

During the very boring alcohol-free second evening, Gaby decided to pick up chess again. She chose Yasha as her opponent this time after Illya told her he wasn’t very good at it. She’d acted offended, as if she couldn’t take him on herself, but sat down with Yasha anyway. She ended up losing and couldn’t look at him the entire evening or he’d show his triumphant grin. Even if he didn’t show it, Illya was amused.

In an attempt to keep Gaby busy, Illya, Sasha and Yasha attempted to improve her Russian. The last mission had shown how much she still had to learn, and she was determined to make sure she could understand every single word next time. After half an hour, she gave up, too tired to continue.

“I keep mispronouncing it,” she sighed, slumping down on the couch, careful not to reopen her wound.

“You’re not half bad,” Sasha commented, his compliments not outstandingly positive, similar to Illya.

“You’re learning,” Illya reminded her. “And you are still hurt. Don’t punish yourself.”

Yasha leaned over to his twin, telling him something very funny in Russian in a hushed tone. Illya told them to shut up and Gaby looked at the three expectantly, but none translated their little inside joke. She called out to Solo.

“He said that Illya has a soft spot for the small mechanic,” Solo commented from behind his book. He looked up briefly. “That’d be you.”

“I know that’s me,” she bit back, still irritated they spoke Russian around her when they knew she couldn’t understand.

Realizing she’d just confirmed what Yasha had said, she whipped her head around to look at the twins again, who were both looking between the both of them with an exceptionally smug look. Meanwhile Illya decided the curtains were very interesting to look at. It wasn’t that their relationship (if you could even call it that) was secret, he just didn’t like being public about it. And at the moment, neither did she.

Finding a perfect way to diffuse the tension, Gaby leapt up from the couch and went straight for the liquor cabinet.

“Teller, don’t you dare,” Solo spoke up, his voice anything but serious, obviously curious to see what was about to unfold right before his eyes.

Instead of looking at Solo, Gaby looked Illya directly in the eyes while grabbing the bottle of vodka – she didn’t even have to look at it to know which bottle it was, the shape of it had become so familiar to her.

“Gaby, no.” The low tone of his voice, almost threatening, only fueled Gaby more to take a big gulp of the clear liquid. She did, and it burned all the way down her throat.

Everyone was silent now, even Solo, who pretended to read his book even though his eyes flipped between Gaby and Illya, anticipating. He couldn’t have hidden the smile off his face even if he tried.

Though a game to Gaby, to Illya this was someone going against him on purpose, just to mess with him. His comrades (still completely KGB employees, mind you) were watching him, to see what he’d do. Let a small traitorous East-German woman embarrass him?

Before he could say anything, though, Gaby grabbed a glass, not letting go of the bottle, and walked to her bedroom. She was like a cat; very content with itself after just tipping a glass off the counter, its tail smugly flicking side to side while making its exit, off to wreak havoc somewhere else.

“Thanks for the lesson, but I think I’ll turn in for tonight.” An obvious lie to anyone who has known Gaby for longer than a day – sleep never came when she wished it to, so announcing she was going to bed made as much sense to her partners as her announcing she was going back behind the wall.

Sasha slapped him on the shoulder. “Oleg got us a room too, so we’ll follow Gaby’s example.”

“There’s a spare room in my suite, too,” Solo commented. Nobody was really sure if he was serious. God knows he could have been.

“I’ll pass,” Sasha replied with as much disgust in his voice as he could muster and exited the room, Yasha close behind him, wishing the guys goodnight.

After the door is shut, the silence returned. Solo grabbed the scotch close to him, refilling his glass and the unused one next to it.

“Drink?”

* * *

 

The closer Illya got to Gaby’s room, the more audible the loud music playing was.

_Really, this hotel was supposed to be their safe house. Who allowed her to have a record player on her room? We’ll have neighbors knocking at our door in no time._

He opened the door only to find a drunk Gaby laying upside-down across her bed, her feet tapping against the headboard to the rhythm of the song. The vodka bottle laid half-empty on the nightstand.

Without Gaby noticing him at all, he walked to the record player and switched it off. The tapping stopped.

“What was that? What happened to going to bed?” Illya immediately hated that he sounded like a scolding parent.

“I am in bed.” Gaby seemed to play along, acting like a child.

“I told you not to drink.”

“You know I can’t sleep.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself even more.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

She didn’t reply anymore but instead turned around so her head was actually against the headboard, and buried herself in the pile of blankets.

She mumbled something Illya didn’t catch. “What?” he asked, leaning in closer by sitting on the bed.

A muffled voice, interrupted by soft sniffles, repeated the sentence. “You could’ve died.”

That caught him by surprise. “But I’m here now,” he replied, repeating himself from a few days before, when Gaby had just woken up.

“What would’ve happened if you went with the KGB?”

“I didn’t.” The reply came fast. Too fast. He didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened. Sasha and Yasha are absolutely still his friends and he was so happy that they got along well with his current partners, but if he’d gone with them he would’ve fallen into the hands of Oleg, who would be less happy with his abduction. _You have gotten weak_ , he would tell him, and then have him beaten until bloody and bruised to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. He probably wouldn’t be allowed back into U.N.C.L.E.

“You have to go back someday,” she said, making him face the facts.

“I’m not leaving you behind.” Of course he wasn’t. Being with Gaby (and Solo) every day had become normal to him. He didn’t want to go back, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself. His once beloved motherland had become enemy territory. Maybe he’d become infected by western customs and thinking, but more likely was that the reason he didn’t want to go back was because of a certain tiny spitfire, currently absolutely wasted on vodka.

She looked up at him, her eyes puffy and moist. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

His patience finally running out, Illya leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips tasted of Russian liquor and salty tears and home. He wasn’t leaving her behind. U.N.C.L.E. had become his new home, not the KGB. For the first time since his early childhood, he’d felt at ease being with someone. He could stay here for a thousand years, in this room, in this moment.

Gaby seemed to feel much the same way, judging by the way he felt the corners of her mouth curl up in a smile.

They’d both found a home.


	11. Chapter 11: Interrogation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sali explains her motives. Or at least her grudges held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I keep adding chapters to this story... Oops. I swear, it's almost done!

The call came after four days.

Solo was the one that picked up the phone, relieved to finally hear Waverly’s voice, however British it might be.

“It seems she’s ready for interrogation,” he stated. “I suggest the team comes to HQ, along with the twins.”

“What about the twins? And Illya?” Solo couldn’t resist to ask. He figured the KGB was less than content with three of their best agents currently unavailable. He also figured they’d even be less happy when the twins returned to Moscow without Illya.

“The KGB was so kind as to let us keep the twins during the interrogation period. It also took a lot of persuasion, but Illya doesn’t need to return to the motherland. For now.” The exhaustion in his voice was audible, even through the static-filled connection. Solo wondered how Waverly had possibly managed to win a discussion with the KGB.

“Good,” he commented. “I’ll go get the rest, we’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Understood.” Waverly hung up, and when his voice was replaced by beeps of the phone line, Solo did the same.

He joined the others in the adjacent lounge. They were teaching Gaby Russian again, and even Solo had to comment on her steady improvement. He also couldn’t leave without commenting on the closeness of his two partners since a little under a week. Neither commented on it, and Solo left to go get his jacket, a bit disappointed he hadn’t been able to ruffle any feathers this time.

The car was small and it was honestly a miracle they all fit. Gaby was still recovering and thus unfit to drive. Still, it’d taken them a lot to get her to sit in the back. Even though Solo was an excellent driver, Gaby still muttered some “you switched gears too late”, “you took the turn too wide” and other sour comments under her breath every few minutes.

Illya had claimed the passenger seat, claiming he was the tallest and therefore he had the right to be in the passenger seat. Sasha and Yasha disagreed, but went to join Gaby in the back anyway, where they were now smushed against each other. Sasha decidedly ignored every look thrown his way by Solo through the rear-view mirror.

Once at the Georgian HQ (Gaby was surprised they even had U.N.C.L.E. quarters in Georgia, but at the same time she expected no less of Waverly, who had connections all over the world and quite possibly outside of it), everyone fell silent. They agreed upon this: Solo would go in first, ask some questions about her motives and that jazz, and when needed, Illya or the twins would join or switch for him.

A secretary informed them that they needed to be in the basement, two levels down, to be exact. Solo thanked her with a wink.

Really, Illya was tired of basements. He was barely a week out of one and now he went back in one again. Gaby noticed his mood change and grabbed his hand. She felt him relax nearly instantly.

The basement was damp and hot and Solo’s complaints about his suit getting ruined and sweaty echoed against the walls.

Waverly welcomed them in front of a big window. It was one-way glass, Illya could see – the person on the other side couldn’t see them.

That person was Sali, who sat on a chair, hands and feet bound together, arms behind the chair. She wasn’t sporting any bruises, which was unusual for Illya to see. After all, interrogations in the KGB were violent, no matter whether the suspect was ready to confess or not.

His stomach started to twist at the thought of all of the bloody and battered people he’d seen in Sovjet interrogation rooms – most of them his doing. U.N.C.L.E. really had made him weak, if even the thought of that was making him sick.

“Glad you could make it,” Waverly greeted them, looking unfazed by the situation as always. Gaby noticed he did look a tad tired though. Dealing with Russian officials will do that to you, she figured.

“I suggest Solo goes in first, alone. We think she’ll lose it again at the sight of Illya or our Russian guests.” Waverly motioned for Solo to enter the room, and Gaby felt a misplaced spark of happiness due to Waverly not referring to Illya as another “Russian guest”. He was here to stay. He wasn’t going anywhere anymore, not if Gaby had anything to say about it.

Solo complied, opening the heavy metal door. The rest stood behind the window, listening in on the conversation through the speakers.

“We meet again,” Solo’s voice came through, light as ever.

Sali stayed silent. Solo’s comments were being ignored for the second time today, and it was starting to irk him. He didn’t show it, though.

He sat down on the chair opposite to Sali, taking off his suit jacket and draping it across the back of it.

“Let’s get right into it, shall we? I obviously wasn’t there, so do fill me in on what happened, if you will.”

Silence. Her cold stare was enough.

“You are lucky we here at U.N.C.L.E. don’t use the Russian treatment. This room won’t see any blood. So silence won’t get you anywhere. We have evidence. Hell, we have enough witnesses. An escaped guard even testified,” he rambled on. The part about the guard was entirely fake, but miss Dadiani wasn’t used to interrogations and broke fast.

“I will make sure he won’t live to see the new year.” Her voice was quiet, low, but crisp and clear.

“I will say, your English is terrific,” Solo commented, obviously happy he got her to talk with a simple white like like that.

“My Russian is better. I assume none of you monkeys speak Georgian around here.”

“Correct. Russian is fine by me, if that helps you talk,” Solo answered in impeccable Russian. Behind the mirror, the twins snorted at his American accent. Illya had gotten used to it. Gaby was simply trying to keep up with the fast pace of his speech, even in a language so different to his native one.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Sali switched over to Russian. “Where is Kuryakin.” The sentence didn’t end in a question. It was a demand.

“How heartless. I’m no good? I can ascertain you, I’m a hell of a talker, and interrogation is no different. I could go on for hours.” Of course he prided himself on his ability to make people talk almost at will, but he really wasn’t very experienced as an interrogator. He usually just dropped the mark off, the CIA could do the rest. It was no different with U.N.C.L.E.

“I have no use for you. Nor have I for that little German whore.”

A loud bang against the window interrupted their strained conversation. Solo shook his head slightly, Sali cracked a crooked smile.

“So he’s here. What happened? Did she die?” She turned her head towards the window. “I shot her like you shot my brother. Like a dog in the street!”

A moment of silence. A crackle went across the interrogation room, followed by Waverly’s voice.

“Solo, let her speak to Kuryakin. He insists.”

Solo smirked, a little defeated. “Of course he does.” He turned his attention to Sali as he grabbed his jacket and wiped the folds out of his pants, “For the record, Gaby’s alive and well.”

The door opens and Solo is switched for Illya, who barely managed to keep his finger from tapping against his crossed arms as he took a seat.

“You shot my brother,” Sali spat in Illya’s mother tongue, skipping formalities altogether.

His stare didn’t falter; he had no sympathy for this woman in chains, a woman who had locked him up for no clear reason a week before and had shot Gaby with no second thoughts days before. He stayed silent.

“Let’s call it an eye for an eye,” she tried again, knowing he was mostly angry with her because of Gaby, and not so much because of locking him up in a cellar.

“You will be put against a wall,” he spoke up, though voice low and menacing.

“I trust they will,” she spoke simply, probably glad she got something to start from, to tell her real story. “Like they did with my father. Though they most likely starved and mistreated him way before that.”

Illya opened his mouth to speak, but thought twice, and shut it again.

“That last part might sound familiar,” Sali told him, throwing an entire keg of salt into the figurative wound. A deep gash, cut by the blade of family shame and a fatherless childhood, and never properly taken care of and healed.

“And this concerns you because?” Solo recognized his tone of voice, icier than the frozen tundra of the coldest parts of Siberia, but his eyes more than that. They weren’t even comparable to Siberia. He thought Peril could stare an iceberg into a puddle with that look. He recognized it from their first official meeting in West-Berlin, with Oleg and Sanders next to them. Their introduction to each other had been… messy. He still felt sorry for the poor waiters that had to clean up the table Peril had flipped in defeat and frustration before having stormed off.

“Because your father deserved it, unlike mine.”

“Doubtful.”

“Have you ever read your father’s file? Andrei Kuryakin, if I’m not mistaken?”

Everyone held their breaths behind the window. There was no telling if Illya was about to explode at the mention of his father’s name, or what would come after that. Even Waverly looked tense.

Illya nodded slowly, obviously trying his hardest to keep himself from wreaking havoc in the room that started to seem more and more cramped to him.

“Caught embezzling funds. Or rather, barely caught. He had tried to frame his most trusted business partner, and had almost gotten away with it, too. You’re a slippery bunch, you Kuryakins. I have to give that to you.”

“You are lying.” He sat up straighter in the small chair, which creaked under the newfound weight. The sudden noise, much louder than the low voices in the room, made Gaby jump slightly.

“I will repeat my question. Have you ever read your father’s file?”

A pause. “I have.” He didn’t tell her Oleg was reluctant to show it to him and had certainly left out some parts.

“Then you must know. Nobody escapes the KGB though, oh no. Not Mikheil Dadiani, nor his daughter. Seems we aren’t as slippery as the Russians themselves.”

“Is this all?”

“My father was killed by mine. You know damn well how it is, growing up without a father, your family constantly harassed because of the mistakes he made – or hadn’t made. Your family is the reason I’m in fucking chains, and my brother is dead.” She paused to breathe, completely out of breath by her little rant. “It’s a real shame I didn’t get to put a bullet through your head too, or starve you to death – just like both our fathers.”

He stood up suddenly, the chair tipping over and its back hitting the floor. Sali looked content with herself and his reaction, though, having read up on his psychotic episodes, had probably expected a much bigger explosion already.

“If that’s all,” he said in English, signaling the conversation was over. “I’ll see you when your back is against a wall.” Nobody behind the glass was sure the last sentence was even spoken. The speakers didn’t convert the sound very well, and Illya had uttered it so quietly, it could have been a disturbance in the signal just the same.

“See you at the wall, comrade,” Sali grinned at him, sure he was going to break everything in the vicinity as soon as he was back at the safe house or even as soon as he was out of her sight.

The door slammed shut and she was left to stare at the fallen over chair, the only remnant of the conversation had apart from her twisted, self-assured grin.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Gaby announced, grabbing Illya’s hands, one steadily tapping against his leg, in an attempt to calm him. It didn’t work that well.

“I’d agree,” Solo chimed in. “Let’s head home for now.”


	12. Chapter 12: Licking wounds

The drive back was uneventful, if eerily silent. Even Solo knew it was better to keep his less-than-helpful comments to himself.

Sasha had reluctantly chosen the passenger seat next to Solo while Gaby got squished between Illya and Yasha in the backseat. Gaby was too preoccupied with keeping Illya calm, her hands numb from pressing them on his trembling ones, too be bothered by her lack of space in the car.

Once Solo parked in front of the hotel, Illya was the first to unfold himself out of the small vehicle and leap up the stairs to their floor. Not a word was spoken between the five of them.

Gaby could hear the shower running behind the locked bathroom door when she opened the door to the suite she shared with both her partners. Sasha and Yasha had decided to contact Oleg before returning to them.

Napoleon went to fix the both of them a drink, not bothering for a third glass since he’s used to their Russian not appreciating a nice drink.

Gaby accepted the glass and downed the liquid in one gulp, not asking what was in the glass in the first place. By the way it burned down her throat and the taste she’s not a fan of in her mouth, she deduced it was scotch. She hated scotch. Solo loved it, so it was to be expected.

“I haven’t seen him like this in a while,” Solo mumbled  into his glass, taking a sip from the copper-colored drink.

“Me neither,” Gaby mumbled back, lowering her voice even though she was sure Illya couldn’t hear them over the sound of his own internal anger and the pouring water. “I’m worried.”

“Aren’t we all, Gabs,” Solo scoffed, sounding almost offended that she would even think she was the only one to care about their partner. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the twins and what they’ll tell Moscow about him.”

He had a point, and Gaby was embarrassed she’d completely glossed over that fact. The KGB wouldn’t be happy with this, and even if Illya didn’t return, Sasha and Yasha would be paying for their friendliness toward U.N.C.L.E. Even though she owed them nothing, she didn’t dislike them. She wondered what they did back in the day, when Illya’s episodes were more frequent, maybe even more dangerous.

When the twins knocked on the door and Solo opened, Gaby checked twice to hear if the water in the bathroom was still running (it was) and asked neither of the twins in particular: “How did you handle it?”

Sitting down before answering, they both looked confused. “Handle what? The spy life?”

She shook her head, her bangs waving from side to side in front of her face. “Illya. His episodes. I haven’t seen him like this in a long time. How was he back in training?”

They looked at each other, at Solo, who also seemed to be curious, and then back at Gaby, deciding telling her couldn’t hurt.

(It really could, as much as anything they could but shouldn’t reveal about Illya and his time in the KGB, but for some reason, U.N.C.L.E. had this effect on KGB agents. They would relax around the team, letting go of their rigid upbringing with seemingly hard-line beliefs and opinions on the rest of the world, even if it was for just a moment.)

“We didn’t handle anything,” Sasha started, lowering his voice for the same reason as Gaby just minutes before. “The few times we tried to calm him down, we were reprimanded.” Both Solo and Gaby figured that it was much worse than simply reprimanding, but didn’t open their mouths about it.

“Throughout the years, he really improved,” Yasha added, and Sasha nodded. “Though he was never really one to hold his anger. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do that. The first time I’ve seen someone else being able to help him do that.”

Gaby felt like she was being stared at, and slumped back into the couch, crossing her arms. “It doesn’t always work.”

“it worked today,” Yasha replied, keeping his eyes on her. It made her nervous.

She heaved a sigh and was the first to look away. “I hope it did.”

Their conversation was cut short by a faint _thump_ coming from the bathroom, making half the suite shake even though it’d sounded muffled by the walls.

Everyone fell silent, holding their breaths to hear if anything was happening. They all knew what was happening – something just broke. Be it the wall or the sink, it seemed Gaby’s touch wasn’t magic after all.

Voice filled with concern, she already stood at the door, calling out. “Everything okay?”

After a few seconds, a distant confirmation was heard and she got away from the door, deciding giving him space would be the best – and only – option for now.

“I’m not sitting around sulking. You guys want a drink?” Gaby offered, her newfound optimism relieving the rest of the room.

Sasha ordered a scotch (Solo hummed in agreement and approval of his choice, and Sasha almost went back on the offer) and Yasha a vodka.

“I don’t think it’s Russian vodka,” Gaby commented, trying to read the label.

“You’re letting me down here, Gabs,” he replied, not noticing he’d picked up Solo’s habit of calling her Gabs. Nobody commented on it, Gaby even suppressed a small smile.

She unscrewed the cap when the bathroom door opened, a stone-faced Illya emerging. His hair was still wet and drops of water caused dark spots on his shirt. He calmly walked to their joint bedroom, the slamming door the only sign of his anger.

Gaby set down the glass and bottle and followed Illya, suddenly forgetting her own point about giving her space.

She, however, closed the door behind her slowly and quietly, afraid she’d startle Illya so much he would push her back out again.

The three remaining agents simply stared at the scene that was being played out just out of their views – just behind that door. They all had to admit, they were a little afraid for Gaby; they had all experienced Illya’s rage firsthand.

“So, about that drink,” Solo spoke up, tearing their eyes away from the door and back to the alcohol cabinet, where an open bottle of vodka stood next to two empty glasses.

* * *

 

He didn’t look up when she opened the door. He sat still like a statue, watching his hands, one of which was bleeding onto the bed he sat on, slumped over.

His position disturbed Gaby; Illya always sat ramrod straight, always alert and polite.

With a nearly inaudible tsk, she grabbed the first aid kit from one of the cabinets and clicked it open, removing some rubbing alcohol – would be a shame to waste any of the expensive liquor in the suite, especially when it’s not an emergency – and a cotton ball.

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya watched Gaby methodically dousing the cotton in the clear alcohol and grabbing his right hand to softly dab it on his bloody knuckles. The sharp pain is nothing he’s not used to, so not even a hiss escapes his throat.

Gaby wanted to ask if he was okay, but she could answer that question herself. She also knew Illya didn’t like unnecessary questions, ones that were asked solely for the sake of politeness or to skirt around another topic.

“You’re not okay,” she stated, her eyes flicking from his hands to his face. She was caught by surprise, even though she should’ve entirely expected it; two bright blue eyes were staring right back at her.

“Is a scratch,” he answered, uncharacteristically not addressing the actual topic at hand.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Gaby tried not to sound too motherly, too fussy. She failed miserably.

“I have been getting better, but I cannot always keep my anger in,” he admitted. She was glad he wasn’t lying, at least. Telling her he was okay, like he usually did, even though he always wanted her to speak the truth and nothing else. Something much like anger welled up inside Gaby, but she pushed it down, deciding this discussion was best held at another time.

“I know,” she agreed, slowly nodding, focusing on bandaging his hand. “I don’t expect you to.”

“My past should not hurt me this much anymore, but it does. I should learn to control myself more.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead in the crook of Gaby’s neck.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for this,” she lashed out. He didn’t lift his head, perhaps afraid to face her anger, perhaps because he’s grown accustomed to her occasional rage and isn’t scared or even alerted by it anymore. It was just how she was, his small spitfire.

“I have nobody else to blame.” False, he knew.

“You don’t have to blame anyone. Well, in this situation, it would be pretty apt to blame that witch Sali, but that’s not important right now. She was just riling you up – get a reaction out of you.”

“And I fell right into it. She should not have mentioned you, call you those things.”

Gaby laughed bitterly, no trace of humor to be found. “She shouldn’t have, but she did, and I don’t care. Like I said – she doesn’t know me, she simply did it to get you to lash out. This time, you did. But I’m sure you’ll learn to handle it. You’ve already come so far.”

With no reasonable retort, Illya stayed silent but raised his head. Gaby had finished bandaging his hand long ago, and was now holding it with one hand while smoothing his hair back with her other. Her hand slid from the back of his head to his jaw.

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you,” he told her, voice merely  a whisper.

“I know you are,” she matched his tone volume, “but I’m not scared. I believe you won’t hurt me. Because it’s me.”

He nodded, a smile breaking the clouds that seemed to be hanging above his head. Gaby felt the rays of sunlight seep through and warm her face.

Unaccepting of that sunlight to disappear again, to be obscured by clouds of his own insecurity and fear, Gaby leaned in to brush her lips against his, letting him close the deal or decide not to.

She hadn’t expected anything else, but still smiles when he decides to close the minimal distance between them.

As if on cue, sunlight shines down on their faces. Only it’s not sunlight, but light from the adjacent room.

Sasha stood in the door, looking unsurprised by the scene and mildly agitated.

“I see everyone’s happy again, but if you do not keep your American in check next time, his pretty head will be rolling over the floor. Would be a shame to ruin the Persian rug with bloodstains.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One epilogue after this! We're nearly at the end!


	13. Chapter 13: Goodbyes

Another person in her life had disappeared.

Gaby’s first thought as she woke up were obviously unfair towards Illya, as she was awake for merely seconds and he could’ve just gotten up earlier. But for some reason, it doesn’t sit well with her, mainly because she doesn’t hear him bicker with Solo either. In fact, there’s no morning banter at all.

She throws the door open to the main room and finds only Solo, sitting utterly relaxed on the fluffy couch, his feet propped up and crossed on the glass coffee table and today’s paper in both hands, only his neatly-done hair showing up above it.

“He’s out,” his voice from behind the newspaper tells her. “Did you know President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act earlier this week?”

Gaby released a breath she didn’t know she was holding and slumped her shoulders, relieving the tension in her body. She wondered why she was so terribly paranoid. Illya’s episode from yesterday probably had something to do with it.

“That’s great,” she commented. “Natalie got what she wanted in the end.” Natalie was a black lady who worked as a bartender in a small pub in New York City, where, during their last stay, Gaby could be found most evenings. They’d gotten along well, both knowing what it was like to not truly be free (though Nat admitted she could’ve had it worse). Natalie was a fierce one, a fighter for freedom, and Solo and Illya agreed she was much like Gaby. Solo had missed her for more reason than just her fiery personality and resemblance to Gaby.

Just as Gaby contemplated whether she should spike her coffee, the twins walked in.

“Did I not tell you to knock?” Solo scolded them, conveniently forgetting that knocking is not something Solo has ever done, nor plans to do in the near future.

“Did you not learn to lock your doors?” Sasha threw back, and was met with merely a plastered, American smile.

Gaby nearly sank into the overly fluffy couch next to Solo, tutting him (something she’d definitely learned from Waverly and his British antics) for putting his feet up on the glass table. He was even wearing shoes, for god’s sake. He pretended to ignore her and stood up, putting his paper away.

“Do we…. Have any plans?” Gaby asked with her mouth full of toast. “Everyone’s all dressed up and it’s barely nine.”

“Since our dear Russian has his own plans for the day,” nobody chose to elaborate on it, and Gaby noticed a spark of suspicion light up in her, “we decided to take you shopping, that kind of jazz,” Solo stated, proud of his plan. Seemed like they were still not letting the whole “you got shot so we have to take care of you” thing go.

She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her coffee. She’d decided against spiking it and regretted it now.

“Meaning, Teller,” Sasha spoke up, “that you get up and dressed.”

She scoffed and dropped her burnt toast on her plate while getting up. “Sir, yes sir,” she replied mockingly and marched to the bathroom.

-

Napoleon could swear Gaby had some sort of weird effect on hardened KGB agents. At the moment, it were the twins in front of him, happily telling Gaby about their past and Illya’s. Of course, most of bad parts were skipped, but it was still a nice scene to behold.

“She was crazy, I swear!” Yasha claimed. “He’d come back with either a hickey or a slap on the cheek. I’m not sure who was the crazier one in the end – her, or him for going back to her every time.”

They were telling her about how Illya had dated a stilyaga when he was eighteen. When she’d asked what a stilyagi were, both agents simply pointed at Napoleon and said “something like that, but imagine him in Russian.” Solo had removed himself from the conversation then and there, gravely offended at the fact he’d just been called a Russian with an America-fetish. Or something like that. He was only half-listening to their conversation, to be honest.

“Sasha used to wear his hair long, ‘til his shoulders before it was all cut off,” Yasha told Gaby.

“Bullshit,” Sasha pushed his brother gently, which was still strong enough to make him wobble a bit. “It never came to my shoulders.”

Gaby laughed outright, picturing the perpetually frowning man with long hair. Even Solo cracked a smile.

“When we started training, everyone got a buzzcut. Even Illya. Motherfucker, he even pulled it off without looking like an idiot, unlike most of the recruits.” Sasha scruffed his own head. He’d have to shave it again soon, it was getting too long.

They continued their conversation inside the clothing store Napoleon ushered them in, insisting Gaby should try the Chanel dress he’d spotted from outside.

“You’re not serious, are you?” Sasha commented harshly when Gaby walked out of the fitting room and Solo nodded approvingly.

“Don’t tell me women’s fashion is your expertise, too,” Solo groaned, knowing what was to come.

“I did not say that. All I’m saying is that there’s too much gold on the dress. Colors would look much better on her, not this…” he made some vague hand gestures at Gaby, “bling-bling, as you call it.”

“You know it better, dear? Be my guest,” Solo crossed his arms to mirror Sasha’s stance, his expression more amused than anything else.

“Don’t call me that, Yankee,” Sasha bit back, and thoughtfully looked at Gaby. He put up his index finger, indicating he’d be “just one second” before walking from the dressing rooms to the dresses and picking a dark blue, utilitarian-looking dress.

He handed it to Gaby, who reluctantly held it up. This was worse than a Patou.

“I think I’ll have to politely decline,” she commented with curled lip at the dress that looked like it was made for women whose goal in life was to cook, clean and sew and whatnot.

Sasha huffed and Solo’s expression was more or less readable as “I told you so”.

* * *

 

To say that Illya was nervous would be an understatement.

He was back at the U.N.C.L.E. HQ, in the elevator down to face Sali one last time before she’d be handed over to the KGB, as they promised.

He could very well freeze up once in the same room as her, and she’d tear him a new one for coming back and for running in the first place. He was hoping she wouldn’t mention Gaby. He wasn’t sure if he could control himself if she did.

Waverly wasn’t there to greet him this time, only three unimpressed guards who let him in without any qualms.

“Back for another round, Kuryakin?” Sali sat cuffed to the steel frame of her bed, arms obviously tired from her awkward positioning. There were no chairs in the room this time, so Illya just stood there awkwardly.

“Your brother was not terribly smart, I have to say,” Illya remarked in English, settling on crossing his arms and wearing his usual stoic expression.

She scoffed, though not very convincingly. “Never was, but he was still my brother.”

Illya expected a string of insults to come flying his way, but it remained quiet. The room was soundproof so the silence was absolute, the only exception being the soft sound of their breaths and Sali’s repositioning on the mattress that creaked under her weight.

Maybe her rage had run out, maybe she was tired. Maybe she was mourning her brother, killed by a Kuryakin, just like her father.

“I’m sorry for your father,” Illya told her. He meant it. He was still sure his father wasn’t entirely at fault (even though with the KGB, he wasn’t sure what and what not to believe anymore) but he still knew what it felt like to grow up with a parent less, to have them taken by the country you’re taught to love unconditionally. Did the love for your country come before the love for your family?

Trick question. The country is your family. Once again, he was taught this and had believed it for thirty-three years, but only now was he starting to question it. He figured to keep that from Sali, as she’d certainly rat him out once she was in the custody of the KGB.

“So am I,” she replied, not budging one way or the other. Illya almost wished for her to lash out, just so he could tell himself he hadn’t been nervous for nothing, that the woman who’d successfully kidnapped the KGB’s best wouldn’t have given up after a few days in custody of U.N.C.L.E.

“I’m sorry for your mother, though,” she heaved a sign, keeping her gaze on the ceiling. “I mean it. Mine lives somewhere in the country, with little contact with the outside world. She still has no idea about me being here, not sure if she knows about Archil. I presume she doesn’t. It’s probably for the best.” She stopped and frowned. “Why am I telling you this?”

“She will be worried, surely,” Illya pushed on. It was the first time in a very long while someone besides his teammates had mentioned his mother in a way that wasn’t meant to aggravate him, push his buttons. He could appreciate it, though silently.

“She barely hears from us as is. Last time Archil visited her was two months ago. I can’t even remember my last time. Too bad I can’t make up for that now.”

“I will tell her about the news on her children,” Illya said, he himself taken aback by this sudden promise. He wasn’t planning on going back on it, though. Had someone told him the same thing if he were in Sali’s situation, he wouldn’t want them to go back on it either. He was a man of his word.

Sali eyed him suspiciously. “Why this sudden shift of mood? Days earlier, you looked like you wanted to rip my head off. Does a little mother talk lower your guard that much?”

He wouldn’t let himself get angry, refused to let his finger tap. “I am offering you this, do you accept or decline, Dadiani?”

Her lips became a thin line. She was pushed into a corner. If she declined, her mother would worry after a while, but if she accepted, it’d look like she trusted him. Which she didn’t.

“How do I know you wouldn’t hurt my mother?” she asked. She was merely testing him. She’d read his file, after all – momma’s boy. She were willing to bet he wouldn’t dare hurt any woman who even looked like she might be a mother.

“It’s called trust,” he replied, wholly unimpressed by her little test, as he himself knew fully well that she’d read his file and knew this much about him.

After about fifteen seconds of no answer, Illya turned around and headed to the door. “If that’s your answer.”

“Fine,” Sali called out. “Please.”

Illya raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Where does she live?”

* * *

 

Illya was the first one at the hotel room.

He stood in the main room for a few seconds, making sure he didn’t hear the crackling of a record player, light steps of a dancer, possibly even any talking with exaggerated R’s. He didn’t.

A note on the nightstand calmed him, the neat, squared handwriting even more so than the actual content of the little piece of paper.

_We’re out for a while, could be late. Don’t stay up for me._

_Gaby_

By the time they’d returned, it was well past midnight and Illya was focusing on his game of chess (his fourth this evening alone). He didn’t so much as look at the door, which was horrible for a top-rank spy like him who was meant to react to every detail. The first steps he’d heard in the hallway were, however, small and recognizable ones. No need to worry.

“I told you not to stay up,” she told him as she hugged him from behind in his chair. She smelled of alcohol and fresh air. Something about her not having recovered and drinking laid on the tip of his tongue, but he kept quiet about it.

“I lost track of time,” he lied.

“You never lose track of time, so don’t sell me that shit. For a top spy, you’re an awful liar,” she chastised him, though good-humored. He hummed noncommittally in response.

“Sasha and Yasha are called back early. They went to their room to pack their stuff before they go get Sali and leave for the airport. We should go say bye,” she informed.

“You sound sad.” He looked up from his game.

“I grew attached over the past few days.”

“They’ll do that to you,” he commented, not trying to hide his small smile.

She huffed out a little laugh and pulled Illya’s arm. “Let’s go to them.”

The walk to the other floor was quiet, but the room they were headed for was anything but.

“You are by far the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met!” Sasha pointed at Solo, a vein in his forehead thrumming.

“I’ve heard that one before,” he quipped, his hands up in the air in innocence. He lowered them after several seconds and cleared his throat. “Sorry if it bothered you, I was only having a bit of fun.”

Yasha only watched as Solo gave his half-hearted apology. It would have been impressive, had he known his non-apologetic streak.

Sasha mirrored him, lowering his accusing finger. His face turned from positively furious to somewhat irritated. “Whatever. Apology accepted, no harm done. Now get your annoyingly handsome face and your pretty boy smile out of here before I decide to kick your ass anyway.”

That seemed to do for Solo. “You got it.” As a farewell present, he smiled his most charming smile once more before exiting the room just as Illya and Gaby were about to enter.

“Late to the party, I’m afraid,” Yasha snorted in amusement. He’d switched to Russian, trusting Gaby had picked up enough from their lessons.

“Why are you leaving early?” Gaby asked, struggling to pronounce the Russian words but doing well, all things considered.

“Moscow needs us. We’ve been away longer than planned and they’d rather not have us stay any longer. Plus they want Sali as soon as possible for interrogation,” Sasha explained, having calmed down from his little fit.

Illya didn’t speak at all, trying to hide being sad his only source of intact happy memories were leaving and were most likely not coming back for a long time, if at all.

“Don’t try to act tough, Illya,” Sasha laughed and didn’t hesitate to hug him tightly. Gaby was sure if he’d pat her on the back as hard as he did Illya, she would die.

Yasha soon followed and Gaby wasn’t entirely sure but thought Illya told the boys to take care of themselves in Russian.

The hugs they gave Gaby were noticeably softer than they gave Illya, and they almost treated her like she was made of glass, like she would’ve broken had they squeezed a bit harder.

“Thank you,” Gaby told them in her best Russian, followed by some goodbyes she hadn’t practiced because she doesn’t want to use goodbyes and certainly not Russian ones.

When all is said and done and the trio is back in their hotel room, Gaby is deadest on practicing some more Russian.

“You should work on your goodbyes,” Illya said, letting her lean into him so she doesn’t completely disappear into the fluffy couch.

She shook her head furiously and looked at him. “I don’t want to use them. I’m afraid I’ll have to, once.”

In the span of a second, Illya’s heart sank, picked up its rhythm and skipped a beat or two.

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to. I’ll be close by.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted upload this yesterday, and I had it all ready but I forgot to click the "post" button... I impress myself sometimes.
> 
> But this is the end! Finally! How I've made it through this shitshow of a fic with plotholes bigger than my life, I've no idea. But I did it. And you! If you read the whole thing, thank you so much! Thanks for sticking around and I hope you'll stick around for some oneshots that'll definitely come from this fic (the team having their own sign language, Gaby and Natalie, you name it)
> 
> Also.. I might've taken some inspiration on Illya dating a stilyaga from stunningepiphanies with their fic The Sweetheart Affair. I just liked it too much.


End file.
